Bury Me In My Waders: An Old Duck Hunter Recalls His Fowl Past

“Through Webster’s watchful eyes scanning the duck marsh,

My wife claims to have figured out why I hunt ducks. According to her, there’s something in my chemistry that drives me to seek masochistic pleasure by exposing myself to bad weather occurring in cold, wet, muddy places. The hunting of waterfowl, she contends, is merely an excuse, and indirectly related to my congenital glitch. She is of the opinion that I should be studied by behavioral scientists. Since a fair number of my old, hunting companions have already migrated to that great marsh in the sky, I’m feeling the urge to share these stories. Some of these recollections have been rattling around inside my noggin for over 50 years. Like myself, my lifelong hunting pals who are still above ground have slowed way down. We suffer from hardening of the arteries, arthritis, rheumatism, lumbago, and gout, not to mention nicotine withdrawal and a leathery liver. Trinidad cigars and Napoleon Cognac are now only fond memories, having been replaced by Watkins Liniment and green, vitamin smoothies. Anybody who picks up this little book and gets half as big a kick out of reading it as I’ve had writing it should have a pretty good time. D.E.W.